


Bittersweet Genesis

by heartshapedcandy



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-07 00:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6776848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartshapedcandy/pseuds/heartshapedcandy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke and Lexa find each other in dreams. </p>
<p>(A canon divergence from 3x09 in which Clarke takes the chip)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bittersweet Genesis

It starts with pain.

 

But Clarke Griffin knows that most things do.

 

She doesn’t wince, even as she pushes the plunger as far as it will give, the needle piercing sharp into the blue of her vein. She pulls the needle out quickly, biting her tongue between her teeth to stop a hiss of pain as the sterilized metal tip retracts from the fragile skin of her forearm.

 

She narrows her eyes at her hand, flexing her fingers and watching the tendons in her wrist ripple in response. Clarke drops the syringe to the ground, empty now, and she pays no mind as the glass casing shatters against the hard stone floor.

 

She looks up and beckons to the boy who leans against the wall watching her, stoic and seemingly unaffected but for the tight clench of his jaw.  Clarke reaches down, pulling out the knife she keeps tucked close on her hip, and offers it to the boy hilt first.

 

“Do it, Murphy,” she says, turning and sweeping her hair over one shoulder.  She squares her shoulders, breathing out heavy from her nose, concentrating hard on the window across from her. She tries to focus only on the fractured sunlight that filters through the thin glass.

 

Clarke allows herself the distraction of remembering how _she_ had looked in those moments, a few quiet hours before the end, framed against the window in her bedroom.

 

Clarke closes her eyes, the imprint of Lexa seared on the inside of her eyelids, golden and breathing and almost hers.

 

“Make it fast,” she says, feeling the cold press of his hand against her skin.

 

When Murphy cuts the knife down the back of her neck, Clarke Griffin bleeds black.

 

*

 

The first thing that Clarke can remember from childhood is the white hot throb of pain.  It’s her earliest memory, fuzzy and ill formed but for the startlingly clear remembrance of the way it felt to bleed.

 

Her mom always filled in the rest, loved to tell the story at hushed evening gatherings on the arc, leaned back in Jake’s arms as she grinned at Clarke sitting bashful by the synthetic fireplace.

 

Abby recounts Wells and Clarke, only just walking, and the games they used to play. Games that would involve Clarke chasing him haphazardly down metal corridors, screeching and laughing as he managed to stay just barely out of reach. In this one instance, Clarke had tripped. She split open her knee against a sharp corner and lay wailing until Jake found her, Wells as always at her side, one hand patting comfortingly at Clarke’s small back.

 

Clarke thinks that it is only fitting her recollection of the world begins with agony.

 

God knows it will end that way too.

*

_After Roan left Clarke and Murphy at the tunnels, she forced him to double back._

_“I’m not leaving without the flame,” she had said, glaring hard at the silhouette of the tower, “I’m not leaving without her.”_

_They found their way back to the sacred room, dimly lit by flickering candles that cast eerie shadows against the crumbling walls. Murphy brushed his hand over a charcoal drawing as they pass it, smudging it carelessly with his thumb._

_“Did you know,” he said, “that the first commander came from Polaris?”_

_Clarke turned, disbelieving, squinting at him to gauge if he was telling the truth. “The thirteenth station?”_

_Murphy tapped the wall. “Apparently that’s her and her Natblidas.” He said the word almost mockingly, rolling it too hard over his tongue, “Titus wouldn’t shut up about it.”_

_Clarke stepped in closer, “The Nightbloods?” she studies the drawing. “She’s from the arc,” Clarke tilted her head, “was she one of them? How is that even possible?”_

_Murphy shrugged, moving to the escape capsule, feeling around inside. He held up his hands in exaggerated victory, “I found your girlfriend.”_

_Clarke ignored the plummet in her chest and walked to him, snatching the briefcase from his hand.  She held it carefully, studied the insignia of the commander, rusted over but visible, a twist of blue overlaying a gray backdrop._

_She knelt then, Murphy watching warily, clicked open the clasps with her thumbs to find the red fabric nestled in the center. She unfolded it carefully, and when she found the box she knew held the chip she exhaled in relief._

_It was still here.  She was still here._

_As the fabric unfolded, something else rolled into her palm. A vial. Filled to the rim with a black substance that sloshed as it moved. Clarke felt her heart thud, tucked the small tin into her shirt as she dug further into the briefcase. Her hand touched metal, cool and silver, something almost like a gun, with a trigger and a barrel.  A syringe._

_A vial of black liquid._

_A syringe._

_The first commander, surrounded by Nightbloods on that decimated earth, presumably of her own making._

_“This is how she did it,” Clarke breathed, “This is how it all began.”_

_Murphy knelt by her side, “Whatever it is you are thinking, I want no part in it.”_

_The look in Clarke’s eyes told him he wouldn’t have a choice._

 

*

It starts with pain.

 

Clarke Griffin stands perfectly still, face tilted up, eyes closed, as Murphy stitches up the back of her neck. He is surprisingly gentle, his left hand pressing soft against her neck, his thumb over her pulse point.

 

Clarke Griffin doesn’t open her eyes until he tells her he is done, and even then she doesn’t allow herself time to think about what has happened, to consider the AI that has now taken root deep in the very center of her being.

 

Lexa would call it her soul

 

Lexa’s soul, now her soul.

 

Theirs.

 

The thought almost breaks her and she chokes it down. No time. There’s no time.

 

Clarke knows what she has to do.

 

*

Clarke bursts through the doors of the throne room, pounding with fury, striding into the room before a guard stops her with a heavy hand on her collar. She shrugs him off and he releases her, but watches wearily to make sure she doesn’t take another step toward the throne

 

Ontari lounges, languid and sneering, from her place on the dais. “I knew you would turn up,” she says, “I’ve been looking forward to putting you in your place.” She casts a glance around the room at the ambassadors that have gathered at the fringes, “It’s safe to say that you are no longer a welcome member of this coalition.” She smiles at Clarke, biting and fake, hands curved into claws around the arm of the throne. “I think a lot of things are going to be changing around here, your presence being one of them.”

 

Clarke swallows hard, casting a wild glance around the room. Though a few ambassadors seem invigorated by Ontari’s speech, several seem wary, perhaps worried their place in the coalition will soon be deemed irrelevant as well.

 

Before the guard can stop her, Clarke pulls a small knife from her sleeve. He is just reaching for her when she slices across the palm of her hand. Clarke drops the knife, holding her arm aloft until all can see the blood that drips black from her palm.

 

“I am a Natblida,” she says, voice echoing around the silent chamber.  She turns away from the ambassadors, swiping her hair from her neck so the fresh stitches are painfully clear, “And I have the soul of the commander.”

 

A ripple passes over the room, ambassadors murmuring among themselves, the guard that hovered, confused, by Clarke’s elbow taking a stuttering step back.  Clarke gestures to Ontari. “Check for yourself, she bears no scar,” she raises her voice, “she does not carry the flame.”  Clarke feels a surge run through her, back straightening and chin tilting high. She pins Ontari to the throne with her gaze, red hot and blistering. “If you don’t believe me, there is one way to know for sure who the commanders have chosen.” She takes a step forward, close enough that she can see the glint of Ontari’s teeth, bared in a smile that looks to be more of a grimace. Clarke lowers her voice, though in the stifling silence of the room, her words carry far enough for all to hear: “You are challenged.”

 

Ontari stands now, striding forward until they are nose to nose, dark eyes slits beneath the angry furrow of her brow. “I accept your challenge,” she says, voice a snarl, mouth curving into a grin as she eyes Clarke up and down. “You won’t live long enough to truly regret this,” she says, hand moving to toy with the hilt of the blade at her hip, “but I’ll make sure the short time you have left contains enough suffering for a lifetime.”

 

Clarke says nothing, just holds her gaze. The throne room is still, and neither woman moves.

 

*         

 

Clarke stands alone, squinting in the dry heat, ignoring the swelling noise and chatter of the crowd that rings the makeshift arena. She wipes her palms on her pant legs, they are slick with sweat and the anticipation of the fight has her shaking.

 

She eyes Ontari who stands across from her, flanked by two Azgeda guards, looking cool and collected despite the relentless heat of the sun. Ontari catches Clarke’s eyes and smirks.  Ontari holds her gaze as she reaches down to grip at the hilt of her sword, she cocks her head as Clarke’s eyes follow her movements and her smile grows.

 

Despite the sweat dripping down Clarke’s cheek, she has to hold back a shiver.

 

She can’t win this. Clarke realizes it all at once with the complete clarity of inevitable truth. She doesn’t have a fraction of the training as Ontari, can’t remember if she has ever even held a sword. Clarke is a survivor, but will-power alone won’t win this fight. She skims the crowd for a familiar face, and sees no one. It seems unbelievable that it’s been only days since she stood in the surging press of the crowd and watched Lexa prepare for the very same fight.

 

She remembers the steady constant of Lexa’s serious gaze and thinks for the first time that she might throw up.

 

She hears the crowd murmur and she realizes it is time for her to take her place in front of the stage.  She moves toward it with strong steps that she hopes do not betray her fear, holding her chin high as she stands shoulder to shoulder with Ontari. As Titus has disappeared, killed by Ontari Clarke presumes, another man, tall and grim, explains the rules of single combat, and Clarke clenches her fists as the crowds begins to cheer.

 

_Someone must die today._

Clarke wonders if she already has.

 

The two women circle to opposite sides of the circle, Ontari unsheathes her sword, swinging it in an arc above her head as the Azgeda in the crowd roar in approval. Clarke sees him then, Roan, standing silent in the crowd, arms crossed over his chest. He inclines his head at her before tilting it toward a guard behind her who holds a scabbard cradled lightly in his hands. _Take the sword_ he is telling her, she nods and moves toward the guard, wrapping her hand around the hilt. When she unsheathes it, the weapon feels clumsy and heavy, she hefts it uncertainly. 

 

She hopes her ashes will find their way back to her mother.

 

Ontari begins her approach, a slow stalk around the perimeter of the arena. Ontari is messing with her, Clarke realizes, and she has no choice but to turn and face her, hefting the sword in front of her body. Clarke is a survivor and she is going to fight.

 

Time stills then, Ontari’s stalk becomes an impossibly slow crawl, the crowd’s yells dim to muted whispers.

 

Clarke Griffin feels someone come up behind her.

 

There is a hand on her waist, curving around the jut of her hipbone, she feels a chest press against her back and an impossibly light touch skim the curve of her neck.  “Clarke,” the voice says and her legs buckle, she would fall if the grip on her waist didn’t tighten.

 

“Lexa?”

 

Lexa hums in affirmation, pressing closer until Clarke can feel the breath of her against her back, can feel the inhale and exhale of Lexa’s chest against her shoulder blades. Lexa runs her finger again down Clarke’s neck, stroking softly over the raised scar that has already began to form. “I’m here to help,” Lexa says softly, “we are all here now.”

 

“The chip,” Clarke gasps out, disbelieving, “It actually works.” She frowns, trying to turn, but Lexa’s hands hold her fast, keeping Clarke from seeing her. “Shouldn’t you be in my head?” Clarke asks, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of this entire thing. She tries to turn again, chest aching, “Lexa, let me see you.”

 

Again Lexa holds her fast, “Not yet,” Lexa murmurs, and Clarke can feel herself pushing further back into Lexa’s touch. “We have to concentrate on the matter at hand.”

 

Clarke almost whines in response, “Lexa I can’t beat her, not like this. “

 

Lexa nudges in closer, ducking her head down to nose against Clarke’s skin.  Clarke can feel the small smile against her shoulder. “You should know better than to doubt yourself, Clarke.” She feels Lexa’s left hand move from her waist and wrap around the hilt of Clarke’s sword over Clarke’s fingers, her right grips Clarke’s hip more firmly while her legs press against the back of Clarke’s own.

 

“Let Ontari make a mistake,” Lexa nudges her forward, “she is far too eager and she underestimates her opponent.” Lexa turns her head against Clarke’s neck so that she can feel every word tickling lightly over her pulse point, “You were born for this, Clarke. Same as me.”

 

When time unfreezes Lexa is gone and Clarke Griffin knows what to do.

 

The weapon feels surer in her hand, and when she steps forward to meet Ontari’s raised sword she feels a thrill of adrenaline pulsing in her chest. Ontari clearly didn’t expect her sword to meet any resistance but the bite of flesh, and when her sword meets metal she stumbles. It is enough to allow Clarke to lash out with her leg, catching Ontari’s kneecap and sending her reeling backward. Clarke drives her sword forward, following her movement as Ontari bats her blade aside.  Clarke spins to slice a cut across Ontari’s back, watching blood blossom through the dark fabric of Ontari’s shirt. Clarke fumbles at Ontari’s next attack and earns herself a deep cut across the flesh of her right thigh.

 

Clarke grits her teeth at the pain, nearly dropping her sword as her muscles scream in response. She feels a steadying hand at her waist and exhales lowly, blocking another of Ontari’s attacks before reeling forward with one of her own.

 

Her move is stupid and clumsy, borne from a complete lack of experience and a driving determination. It catches Ontari off-guard and the sword buries itself deep in the flesh of Ontari’s right shoulder. Clarke twists the hilt, burying the metal deeper in Ontari’s shoulder until the woman cries out, dropping her sword as Clarke tears through the tendons in her shoulder.

 

Clarke rears back, landing a kick with the sole of her foot on Ontari’s chest.  Ontari reels backward before splaying flat in the dirt at Clarke’s feet. Clarke raises her sword with two hands, clenching her jaw as she looks down at the woman before her.

 

Ontaris stares up at her, teeth clenched and face twisted in pain.  Clarke fixates on her small, straight nose, so dainty a thing on such a scarred face. Ontari’s eyes meet hers, steady and dark, her chin bobbing down to her chest in something that Clarke thinks is a nod. “Do it,” she sighs out, her mouth barely moving, perfect nose wrinkling as she pulls her face tight in anticipation.

 

Clarke nods back.

 

A voice that is not Clarke’s own growls out “For the Natblidas,” as Clarke drives her sword straight down, burying it deep in Ontari’s chest.

 

Clarke immediately drops the hilt and steps away from the body, she ignores the crowd whose silence has turned to a deafening roar of approval. Clarke glances down at the blood that drips black from her leg and turns her face back to sun, panting heavy breaths as her chest unknots.

 

The back of her neck throbs and she closes her eyes, realizing all at once that the hand at her hip is gone.

 

*

 

On Clarke’s first night as commander she is shown to Lexa’s bed.

 

She stands, composed and blank, at the foot of it, grappling with the seam that seems to split her chest. She chances a glance down at herself, wondering if she will be able to see the physical effects of the ache that tears at her beneath her flesh.

 

Clarke reaches a tentative hand out to stroke at the bedding before pulling it back quickly. She turns to the young girl that guided her there, small and angular, with lean muscles that look too strong for such a tiny figure.

 

“Is there—” Clarke pauses, taking in the girl’s wide, eager eyes, “Perhaps I can sleep somewhere else?”

 

The girl’s brow furrows and her eyes dart nervously around the room. “But _Heda,_ ” she says, “this is your room.”

 

Clarke nods, steeling herself as she surveys the room. “Of course.” She glances back at the girl who hovers still, poised on her toes, hands knotted before her. “What’s your name?” Clarke asks softly, stalling she realizes. As soon as the girl leaves Clarke will be left in an empty room, anything but alone. Clarke fears that when she has nothing to distract herself she will be forced to turn her attention to the murmuring consciousness that throbs just beneath her active thoughts.

 

The girl shrugs.

 

Clarke almost laughs.  “Do you have no name?”

 

The girl murmurs something beneath her breath before darting from the room.

 

Clarke barely hears her, but the two syllables are unmistakable.

 

_“Leksa.”_

 

*

 

Clarke sits on the edge of the bed and forces herself to breathe.

 

She knows that it only makes sense for grounder parents to name their child after the revolutionary commander that established a coalition of more power and influence than any that had come before it. This small girl was born perhaps a mere year into Lexa’s reign, more than enough time for the Commander of the 12 Clans to become a name spoken almost as legend.

 

Clarke would know.

 

She became a legend after only months on the ground.

 

A thing of folklore and fairytale. A thing of death.

 

Lexa, _Clarke’s_ Lexa, had been a symbol of hope.

 

Clarke feels a tug in her subconscious, hears a murmur somewhere deep in her chest. She stands quickly, casting the bed one last glance before dragging the fur from the bed onto the floor where she curls up, hands over her ears like it can quiet the almost-voices that begin to whisper.

 

Clarke sleeps, but she does not dream.

 

*

 

On Clarke’s second day as commander she leaves her room to find little Leksa sitting cross legged outside her door. She watches, almost amused, as the girl clambers to her feet and nods at Clarke politely. Clarke continues to walk down the corridor, determined to be seated at the head of the governing table before even the first of the clan leaders arrives.

 

The sun hugs the horizon with sleep-heavy arms, a sluggish orange light bathing the capital as its people are roused from their beds. Clarke is followed by both her shadow and the girl, and she can sense the careful steps dancing almost exactly in her footprints.

 

There are too many people in her head already and the addition of this second shadow is enough to put her on edge. Clarke stops abruptly, almost disappointed when the girl behind her stops as well, quick enough to not run into her back.

 

“Leksa,” Clarke sighs, burying the jolt of pain saying the name awakes in her, “Why you are following me? I know where I am going, I don’t need a guide.” The girl looks hurt and Clarke tries to soften her voice, absentmindedly rubbing her hand over the healing incision on the back of her neck, “If I get lost I promise you are the first person I will call.”

 

The little girl’s brow furrows and, before Clarke can even think to move, Leksa pulls a small penknife from the leather of her boot. Clarke takes a stop back as the girl flicks the knife open, opening her mouth to protest as Leksa presses the tip of her knife to her own pointer finger. Clarke narrows her eyes and leans forward as blood wells around the tip. The girl holds her finger aloft and Clarke sighs out in understanding.

 

“You’re a nightblood,” she says, “You are the last nightblood.”

 

The girl looks bemused, shaking her head as she slips her knife back into its concealed pocket, “Not the last,” she says, tilting her head at Clarke.

 

“No,” Clarke echoes, “not the last.” She looks at Leksa and nods, “there will be more born, won’t there?”

 

“To take our place,” Leksa answers, the brutal message delivered with a child’s indifference.  It is enough to make Clarke’s skin crawl.

 

Clarke cannot muster an answer so, instead, she continues to walk, ignoring the girl that trails in her wake.

 

*

 

Clarke stands in the doorway of the bedroom. She clenches her jaw tighter, stepping over the threshold and walking to the window, tilting her head toward the sky. She looks at the stars.

 

Behind her, candles flicker.  They rest on almost every surface, crawling up walls and across tables, casting pools of watery light that surge and waver, shadows advancing and retreating as the flames sputter.

 

Clarke turns slowly, running her hand over the back of one of the cracked leather couches, pacing the length of the room. She stops at the wardrobe, set in a recess behind the ornately carved bed. She kneels and opens the bottom drawer where only two items are nestled. Clarke blinks in surprise.

 

Folded neatly on one side is Clarke’s sweater. She supposes it was Lexa’s at first, but she had taken to wearing it, liking the smile that pulled at the corner of Lexa’s mouth whenever she saw her in it.  The sleeves hung a little long on Clarke, covering her palms, brushing her fingertips. Clarke sits back on her heels, swallowing hard.  She remembers sitting quiet with Lexa, long after dusk, both of them wedged on one couch because Lexa had been showing her a page in the book that lay open on her lap.  She traced a finger beneath the words, eyes flicking to Clarke’s mouth every time she thought Clarke wasn’t looking.  Clarke always noticed.

 

Clarke had moved to point at the page and Lexa had laughed, soft and low.

 

“You have little paws,” she had said, reaching over to take Clarke’s arm gentle between her hands, folding back the sweater carefully until it cuffed around Clarke’s wrist.

 

Clarke watched Lexa swallow hard, watched her throat arch, saw the flutter of her pulse beneath warm skin. For a second, Clarke had thought about kissing her.

 

Clarke slams the drawer shut, sealing it closed and standing abruptly.

 

She walks away leaving the two items behind.

 

The sweater and, wrapped reverently in red cloth, her sketchbook.

 

*

 

On the fourteenth day after Clarke’s ascension she sits cross-legged on her—on Lexa’s—bed and watches little Leksa sitting primly in front of her.  Clarke had convinced the girl to tell her some grounder folktales and the girl had launched herself into it eagerly, telling them in the singsong, lilting manner stories adopt when they are passed from mouth to mouth.

 

“And then Saiya—” Leksa stops to fix Clarke with a stern look, “that’s the fifth commander, remember—raised her great battleax above her head and struck the head of the natrona from his neck with a single blow.”

 

Clarke raises her eyebrows and nods, hiding a smile as the girl checks in to make sure she is listening before returning to her story.

 

“And then,” Leksa says, sighing out heavily and raising her arms above her head, “there was peace for six moons and all was well.”

 

Clarke mimes clapping until Leksa glares at her. Clarke sprawls out, cupping her head in her palm, “Only six moons?”

 

Leksa shrugs, “Peace is hard to come by.  Only my namesake found peace for stretches of _years_.”  Leksa sighs out the last words with a kind of wonder, eyes growing wide again as she seems to consider the concept.

 

“Lexa,” Clarke says, swallowing down that same kind of wonder, “she was something.”

 

Leksa looks at her out of the corner of her eye before scooting closer, reaching out a small hand to wrap it around Clarke’s wrist, tugging softly.  “You were hers, weren’t you?”

 

Clarke startles back, pulling her arm away from the girl’s grip. “No,” she says firmly, “I am my own.”

 

Leksa frowns, pouting her bottom lip, “that’s not what the stories say,” she mutters under her breath.

 

“What?” Clarke says, sitting up quickly, “What stories?” Leksa looks away pointedly, cheeks blushing pink, and Clarke reaches out quickly, grabbing at the girl and pulling her into her lap, tickling her hard over her ribs in the way she knows makes the little girl squirm. “Tell me what you are talking about Leksa kom Trishana or you will suffer a fate worse than death,” she digs fingers under the girl’s neck until she gasps out a cry of surrender and Clarke releases her.

 

Leksa straightens her clothes pointedly, sticking her tongue out at Clarke, glare deepening as Clarke only smiles in return.

 

“What stories?” Clarke presses, swatting a hand at Leksa’s braid that is batted away by tiny arms.

 

“The stories of you and Heda Lexa,” she says still glaring, “the stories of Wanheda and the commander.”

 

Clarke stares at her, feeling her face pale, jaw going slack.  She groans, “You must be joking.”

 

“No jokes, Heda,” Leksa says, affronted now, “I wouldn’t deceive you.”

 

“Okay,” Clarke says, heaving a breath and massaging her fingers over her left temple where a headache has inexplicably set in. “Tell me one.”

 

The little girl shakes her head, points of red setting in high on her cheeks, “No.”

 

“Leksa,” Clarke sighs, coloring her voice with faux disappointment, “would you disobey your commander?” She leans in closer, tugging again at the girl’s braid, “Would you disobey your _heda?_ ”

 

The girl sighs and sits up again, gaze steadfastly fixed on the wall, “No, heda.” She sighs and clasps her hands together, gathering her thoughts beneath Clarke’s watchful gaze. “The story goes,” she says quietly, sparing a single glance at Clarke, “that the commander bent for no one. She was as impenetrable as the sea, and no man nor woman could halt her tide.”

 

Clarke rolls onto her back, the headache deepening.  She stares at the ceiling, trying to separate her thoughts of Lexa from the story.  She feels that familiar ache in her chest and wishes she hadn’t asked the girl to tell her anything at all.

 

“And then,” Leksa continues, “the moon fell from the sky. She took the form of a woman, haloed in gold and silver, with a hand that wrought death whenever she pointed.  Where she walked men and women fell, and though the moon never bled, whole mountains crumbled in her wake.”

 

Clarke heaves out a shaky breath and clenches her hands in the furs, trying to stop the shudders that run up her spine.

 

“Every man and woman who walked the earth longed to take the power of the moon as their own, for the moon commanded death and answered to no one. Only the Commander of Nations, Uniter of the Twelve Clans, the most powerful leader to bear the commander’s seal, was clever enough to catch her. She decreed that every rope in the kingdom be brought to her, and she built a net strong enough to—”

 

“Excuse me?” says Clarke, finally interrupting, “I’m sorry, a _net_?”

 

Leksa rolls her eyes, literally tilts them heavenward as if to say she cannot believe that she has to be dealing with such a branwada skai gada.

 

It’s so Lexa that Clarke feels her breath catch, and she quickly stifles any memories of her. She ignores the strengthening pounding in her head and forces herself to think about anything but the fact that where she is laying now is where she held Lexa in her arms as she—

 

“I’m sorry,” Clarke says, “But a net is just ridiculous.”

 

“Would _you_ like to tell the story?” Leksa asks, entirely put out, and Clarke rolls back onto the bed, hands behind her head. She can’t believe she is being chastised by a seven year old.

 

“I’m probably more qualified to,” Clarke mutters lowly and Leksa perks up, turning to face her.

 

“Would you tell it?” Leksa asks, excited now, mouth curved into a grin.

 

Clarke feels her stomach turn, and she has to stop herself from checking her hands to see if they are still coated in black.  She has washed her palms hundreds of time, but the feeling of them, slick with Lexa’s blood, clings as stubbornly as memory.

 

“No,” Clarke says, clenching her jaw tight, the muscle in her cheek jumping as she grinds her teeth, “You can finish.”

 

Leksa furrows her brow at her, almost as though she wants to speak, but instead turns back to face the wall, settling her hands in her lap. “So the commander built a net strong enough to capture even the moon and, when she had her tangled at her feet, the people of Polis waited with bated breath for the commander to strike her down. But instead—” Leksa quiets and Clarke can feel her gaze, “She sets her free. For though the commander was immune to every mortal man and woman, the tide changes for the moon.” Leksa pauses, letting the weight of the silence settle heavy in their ears before she continues. “The commander was so powerful that the heavens themselves fell before her feet, and the moon was no different. The woman bowed to the commander before the leaders of all twelve clans and brought her people of the sky into the commander’s coalition.”

 

Leksa stops again and Clarke rolls to her side, “What happened next?”

 

“The commander fell in love with the moon,” Leksa says, “not knowing that the price of that love would be her life.” Leksa finds Clarke’s gaze and they watch each other, steady and silent and waiting.

 

“And then?” asks Clarke.

 

“And then the commander is struck down by the one closest to her.”

 

Clarke swallows hard.

 

“As she lays dying in the moon’s golden embrace they exchange a single kiss.  And with that kiss, the commander breaths her soul into the woman that she loves to ensure their story will never die as long as one of them lives.”

 

Clarke stands abruptly, “Is that the end?” she asks sharply.  Clarke pauses, giving Leksa time to answer though she is already stepping toward the door, “I have actual business to attend to.” She pauses again and looks at Leksa who still sits on the bed, chin tucked against her chest, hands fidgeting nervously. Clarke tries to soften her voice, “That was a very nice fairytale,” she says to the girl’s dejected form, forcing something close to a smile before sweeping out of the room in long determined strides.

 

Leksa stares after her, before murmuring the last lines to the empty room.

 

“From that day on, the moon bled black.”

 

*

 

Clarke doesn’t get back to her room until late. She has been throwing herself into her role as commander, trying to strengthen bonds and earn respect. She’s an outsider, that much is obvious, but she is establishing a weary trust with the ambassadors of the other clans.

 

Clarke, as always, hesitates in the doorway, face softened by the candlelight, back and shoulders aching from so many nights curled on the ground.

 

She studies that bed with her usual lurch, but there is a longing this time too. If she closes her eyes she can see her, Lexa, lying soft and pliant on her stomach, head turned toward Clarke, that disbelieving smile quirking her kiss-bruised lips.

 

Clarke remembers the jut of her shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, the way she had reached out to stroke softly at Clarke’s cheeks, suddenly serious, eyes somber.

 

Clarke walks to the wardrobe, forgoing the bottom drawer decisively, instead opening the middle drawer, slow and careful. It’s filled with shirts, each one worn soft with overuse, subdued grays and browns and greens. Every shirt is folded neatly but one that is discarded across the top of the others, as though tried on and put back in a fit of indecisiveness. Clarke takes it carefully in her hands, bringing the fabric to her nose and inhaling slowly.

 

It smells like her.

 

God it smells like her.

 

Like heavy pine smoke and spring, like the mint leaves Clarke knows Lexa rubbed over her pulse points, both wrist and neck. It smells like kissing her, like “it’s okay, you’re safe,” and the snarled “you have never seen me fight,” that had pulsed low in Clarke’s stomach.

 

Clarke shudders out a sob, throaty and keening, and no matter how hard she tries to choke it down it keeps forcing its way up, strangling her throat and pushing from her lungs.

 

Clarke stumbles back toward the bed, sinking down onto it, burying her face in the pillows as her chest heaves and hiccups the more she tries to quiet it.

 

She doesn’t fall asleep until hours later, face tear stained and swollen, Lexa’s shirt clutched to her chest.

*

 

Clarke winds her way through the Polis markets, trailed closely by two towering guards. Leksa darts in front of her, sometimes disappearing down side streets only to reappear at Clarke’s ankles minutes later. Clarke makes a point to smile and nod at the different vendors, greeting the ones by name that she has come to know in her two months as heda. There is still much tension surrounding her ascension, and she makes every effort to become further acquainted with grounder culture.

 

A little boy kicks a ball onto the dusty road and Clarke stoops to pick it up, tossing it from hand to hand until the boy shyly approaches. Leksa chooses that moment to appear and she and the boy exchange a few sentences in Trigedasleng, too fast for Clarke to catch. The boy blushes and gestures to Clarke carefully until she throws the ball back to his waiting hands. He looks up at her, mouth pulling into a gap-tooth smile until Leksa snaps something at him again, hands rooted on her waist.  The boy scampers away quickly and Clarke pokes Leksa’s ribs with a teasing hand.

 

“What did you say to him?” Clarke asks as they continue walking, she pauses to nod her head at the man at the fruit stand, raising a hand in greeting when he smiles back.

 

Leksa shrugs, “he said you were pretty,” she twists so she can skip backward, facing Clarke and grinning cheekily, “I told him to back off, you already have someone to mentor.”

 

Clarke furrows her brow, wrinkling her nose as she takes in Leksa’s pleased countenance, “I’m your mentor?”

 

Leksa rolls her eyes, reaching out a hand to tug at Clarke’s belt with a huff, “I’m a Natblida and you are my commander.”

 

Clarke glances around at the market, feeling a lurch in her chest, “But that means I’m supposed to be teaching _you_.”

 

Leksa giggles, “It’s okay that you’re bad at it, I won’t tell anybody.”  

 

Clarke laughs despite herself, the noise unfamiliar, “I’m bad at it?”

 

Leksa shrugs again, “You’re okay.”

 

Clarke pushes her away teasingly, batting at the long braid that hangs down her back, “I think I liked it better when you were quiet.”

 

Clarke calls her back a few minutes later after eyeing a woman with a baby in a sling across her chest and a toddler cradled on her hip. “Leksa,” she asks slowly, “What happens when another Nightblood child is found?”

 

Leksa seems pleased to be asked, knotting her hands importantly at her waist, “They stay with their parents until they are old enough and then they come to Polis to be trained by you and other mentors.”

 

“Old enough?”

 

Leksa purses her lips, “Old. Like ten.”

 

Clarke considers the girl in front of her, “You aren’t ten, Leksa.”

 

Leksa huffs, annoyed now by the questions, “I am the oldest they could find, after the conclave they must have viable candidates in case—”

 

Clarke nods, “In case I die.” Clarke turns her eyes upward, picking out clouds against the blue of the sky, “What an absolutely inept system.”

 

Leksa stays silent, eyes fixed on the ground and Clarke feels a twinge in her temples

 

*

 

Clarke rarely sees Murphy.

 

Sometimes he slinks into her room, catlike and quiet, eating any food she has left out before collapsing on her couch and sleeping before he leaves again.  His arrival is always unannounced; Clarke would assign him his own room if having him there didn’t keep her grounded. He reminds her who she is.  A sky girl. Fallen from grace with her people and ascending with another. His constant beratement almost keeps her sane.  Clarke thinks the way Murphy sees her is closest to who she truly is.

 

He saw her stripped bare with Lexa, the woman fading in her arms. He sliced her open and sewed her back up again. Murphy held what her people now call her soul in his hands.

 

Clarke rarely sees Murphy, but when she does she lets him stay.

 

 

*

 

On Clarke’s twentieth day as commander a message arrives from the leader of the western blockade.  Pike is dead, it says, killed by Octavia kom Skaikru. The fallout that followed divided the camp into two rivaling sections, and when the skirmish ended Kane and Abby came out in power.

 

They ask what she would like to do next.

 

*

 

In the end Clarke removes the blockade, leaving a gauntlet of guards who had been closest to Lexa in their stead.

 

She decrees the Skaikru will be accepted back into the coalition, just as the Azgeda were after their betrayal. New terms begin to be debated as well as punishments for those who killed the 300.  Trial and judgement alone takes weeks.

 

Clarke only barely manages to spare the lives of the nine other Arkers who slaughtered 300 Trikru warriors in cold blood. But to do so the families of the victims are given the body of Pike so that their loved ones may begin to rest in peace.

 

Clarke thinks the negotiations may never end.

 

*

 

Kane and Abby visit Polis as ambassadors for the new terms of peace.  When Clarke manages to usher them into their private rooms, her mother grabs on to her and holds her so tightly that Clarke thinks she may never let go.

 

Clarke lets herself go slack in her mother’s arms, arms wrapped desperately around Abby’s neck, face buried in her shoulder.

 

And for an instant it feels like going home. 

 

For an instant, it is enough.

 

*

 

The day after the peace treaty is signed, Clarke walks through the marketplace. Leksa walks silently behind her, a shadow again. Clarke sees the man at the fruit stand and, when she raises her hand in a wave, he quickly looks away. Clarke, troubled, stares after him, knotting her brow together as she veers from the path, kicking up dust beneath her boots. She stops at a stall as she eyes the surge of the crowd around her. There is something off. Something distinctly _wrong._ Clarke hears it in in the absence of noise, the usual swell of the crowd muted to a dim buzz, faces turning away from her as they pass.

 

Clarke stops at a stall, running her hand over a bolt of green cloth.  She lifts it into the light and flinches as the fabric seems to flicker to a grey. Leksa stops beside her and Clarke turns to the girl, offering her the cloth to feel.

 

“Do you like it, Leksa?” Clarke asks, stroking again over the cloth.

 

Leksa doesn’t respond, just stands stone silent, her small rosebud mouth rigid, blue eyes lowered pointedly.

 

“Leksa?” Clarke says, bending her head lower now, a hand reaching for the girl’s shoulder, “What’s wrong?”

 

Leksa recoils from her hand and Clarke eyes her slowly, realizing now this is the first time she has truly seen the girl in days.

 

“What is it?” Clarke asks, watching as the girl determinedly tilts up her chin, meeting Clarke’s eyes for the first time all day. 

 

“Your people killed my brother,” she says quietly, shoulders hunched low, eyes narrowing and small fists clenching at her side.

 

Clarke bites hard into her lip, inhaling sharply.  “I—”

 

“At the massacre of 300 _your_ people killed him,” Leksa shivers so hard Clarke worries she will shake herself apart, “and you spared the men who did it.”

 

Clarke swallows hard.  “You are my people, Leksa.”

 

The girl shakes her head, taking a step away from Clarke. “Not anymore.”

 

Clarke has the time to take a single step toward the girl’s retreating back before an arrow buries itself in her shoulder.

 

*

 

Clarke has blurred memories of being taken in someone’s arms, her head lolling back.  There are fuzzy glimpses of Leksa pressing her hands to Clarke’s shoulder and murmuring low comforts to Clarke under her breath.

 

The last thing Clarke sees before her eyes drift shut is Leksa’s palms, coated in black.

 

*

 

For the first time in months, Clarke Griffin dreams.

 

*

 

Clarke opens her eyes to a backdrop of blinding white. For a second she thinks that she is back in Mount Weather and feels a surge of panic that drives her to her feet. Clarke spins slowly in place, uncertain and panting, stopping only when she is sure there is no one else there.

 

The first thing Clarke notices is that her shoulder is unmarred.  Her skin shines, pale and perfect, in the soft glow of white light.

 

The second thing she notices is that this is not Mount Weather.

 

Instead, it seems to be the absence of place. The very walls and floor and air an empty canvas, Clarke’s blue jacket, inexplicably back around her shoulders, the only splash of color.

 

She wonders if perhaps she is dead. Clarke closes her eyes and breathes out softly, she supposes that it is about time.

 

A voice, a unique husky low, a soft feminine rasp, interrupts Clarke’s reverie.

 

“So wise. And so young,” the voice says, “Just like I was.”

 

Another voice interrupts, sharper and louder, “Just like all of us.”

 

Clarke opens her eyes.

 

 She fixates on the closer woman first, traces the pouty, high curve of her parted lips, dark arched brows that Clarke’s hand itches to sketch. The woman has deep, tragic eyes. Eyes, Clarke thinks, that look as though they have seen the end of the world.

 

The second girl is smaller, power packed in a compact frame, red hair tossed in a mess of curls over one shoulder.  She has an axe hanging from her belt, though Clarke can’t imagine the necessity of it here.

 

For a suspended moment there is only the three of them. And then—suddenly and all at once—there is more. Clarke counts at least a dozen more people surrounding her.  She spies the white war paint of the Azgeda and rough cloth masks of the Sankru, sees the brilliant, azure tattoos of the Ouskehon Kru and the dappled camouflage of the Trikru. But it isn’t until Clarke sees a tall boy, dark-skinned and noble, with a cape dripping blood-red down his shoulder, that she realizes who they are.

 

The commanders, all of them, stretching as far back as the apocalypse. Clarke glances around with a kind of desperation, choking back any expression that might give her away. Not all of them.  All but one.

 

They stand in swollen, weighted silence.  Clarke eyes the men and women that surround her wearily, absently stroking over the back of her neck with one hand. The first woman, the one with the sad eyes, steps closer, holding her hand out for Clarke. Though Clarke moves to grip her forearm, the other woman is faster, clasping Clarke’s hand instead.  Her palms are smooth and cold, she squeezes Clarke’s hand lightly, smiling softly as she does.

 

“I’m Becca, Clarke,” she releases Clarke’s hand and takes another slight step forward, “We know much about you.”

 

Clarke cringes away from her words, again rubbing over the raised scar that is healing, pink and raw, at the back of her neck.

 

“That’s funny,” Clarke says finally, dropping her hand, “I know nothing about you.”

 

“You know more than you think,” Becca says smiling, she reaches out a hand and runs it over Clarke’s wrist, settling her fingers her rapidly beating pulse, “we are survived by the same soul, Clarke Griffin.” She tilts her head and lowers her voice, as though she is telling Clarke a secret meant for just the two of them, “We come from the same skies.”

 

Clarke gasps in recognition, pulling her hand from Becca’s loose grasp, “You’re the first commander,” she narrows her eyes, “The only survivor of Polaris.”

 

Becca nods, she opens her mouth to say more but is interrupted by the redhead who pushes into the conversation, arms crossed over her chest. “Maybe we should discuss what we came here to discuss, save the pleasantries for another time.”

 

Becca nods and steps back, shooting one last smile to Clarke, “I think we have much to learn from each other,” she says. Then, with a glance at the redhead, “You can lead, Saiya, if you so desire.”

 

Saiya smirks, pleased, before raising an eyebrow at Clarke. “A commander’s mind isn’t usually so blank,” she scoffs, “I thought you were some kind of artist.”

 

Clarke glances around confused, “What?”

 

A boy, barely sixteen, face smooth and young, steps forward and grins at Clarke. “At the very least you could conjure up a chair or something.”

 

There is a faint ripple of laughter and Clarke frowns, “I’m not controlling this,” she says sharply, “I don’t even know I got here.”

 

Saiya’s response is interrupted by the sound of footsteps.

 

Clarke turns toward the noise.

 

It’s Lexa, straight backed and quiet, hands clasped at her waist. Paint drips black around her eyes, her jacket just barely brushing the ground. The slight downturn of her lips is etched too perfectly to be taken for sincere, her eyes a careless shade of green. When they meet Clarke’s they flash gray.

 

For a single suspended moment, everything is still.  Then the edges of the world begin to glow. It starts with smudges of sunlight at the creases of the universe, small points of light that filter through the void, creating depth where before there was nothing. Strokes of cobalt fill the space over their heads until a sky takes shape, layering shades of azure and cerulean and cornflower until the depth of it stretches on forever.

 

There is grass now beneath their feet, moss crawling up the trunks of trees that are rapidly taking shape, branches yawning eagerly into that perfect sky.

 

Clarke smiles and suddenly there is a sun, golden light a tangible thing as it warms every corner of this macrocosm.

 

Lexa smiles back and, though the sun beats as surely as daylight, the sky grows heavy with stars.

 

In that moment it is just the two of them, frozen between seconds.  Neither woman moves, just stares, caught and enchanted.

 

A low whistle interrupts the silence. “Well I guess you were just in need of the proper muse,” Saiya says. There is a beat of silence, stiflingly awkward, before Saiya clears her throat, “now can we discuss what we came here to talk about?”

 

Clarke turns toward Saiya, clearing her throat, “I don’t see anyone stopping you.”

 

Saiya glares, stepping forward threateningly.  Out of the corner of her eye, Clarke sees Lexa tense. “Fine,” Saiya growls, “The issue at hand is your allegiances here.  Some of us,” Saiya raises an eyebrow as a few of the commanders in the crowd shift forward, “feel that your heart does not lie with your true people.”

 

“My true people?” Clarke says, tone harsh, fist clenched, “everyone in the thirteen clans is my people.” She steps forward until she is nose to nose with Saiya. Clarke notices with some satisfaction she is a few inches taller than the other girl.  She presses in closer. “A concept, if I remember correctly, you never had to deal with.” Clarke turns toward the other commanders, raising her voice, “All of you chose to watch over this land in pieces, to rule a fractured people.” Clarke hardens, chin jutting as she looks out over the crowd, “I will not turn my back from people who need me. None of us should.”

 

A ripple spreads among the commanders.  They whisper between themselves and Clarke watches coldly, only distracted when her eyes flick to Lexa, standing at the outskirts of the crowd.  She nods and Lexa inclines her head in response, gracing her with a small smile.

 

Clarke aches. Every part of her soul seems to be pulling for her to move toward her, to touch Lexa and see if she is as real as she looks, to trace a hand over her stomach, making sure she is once again whole. Instead, she stays still, waiting for the commanders to address her again. 

 

A man, tall and young, dark hair shaved close to his head, steps forward. Clarke notices the scars that adorn his face, the white paint that frames his eyes. “You aren’t one of us,” he says, calm and low, “you don’t belong here.”

 

Lexa does step forward at this, eyes narrowed and voice a growl, “Yu na spek daun gon Clarke, Kay.” Her teeth clench tight and Clarke can see the muscles in her jaw popping as she moves in closer. Just the look of her, feral yet contained, the coil of her alluring and harsh, echoes through Clarke’s chest, settling low in her stomach. Clarke can see Lexa opening her mouth to speak again and Clarke darts in quickly, holding up a hand before Lexa can say more. To her utter surprise, and perhaps to the greater surprise of Lexa, Lexa’s mouth clicks shut.  She stands rigid and tall, contenting herself with glaring at Kay instead of speaking. But Clarke notices the red blush that tinges the tips of her ears. She wonders if she will have the luxury of teasing Lexa about it later.

 

Kay watches as Lexa stands down at Clarke’s gesture and tilts his head toward her, a new kind of interest in the set of his mouth.

 

Clarke lowers her voice to match Kay’s, threatening and quiet.  “I belong here as much of any of you. I would do anything for my people, just as you would.” She steps closer to him, pulling her hair over one shoulder and inclining her neck.  “I have the chip.  Your soul, _our soul¸_ chose me.” Clarke reaches for the knife he keeps sheathed across his chest, pulling it from its scabbard. He doesn’t move, just watches curiously.

 

She draws the blade across her palm, holding back a wince as she cuts in the same place she did in the throne room weeks ago. She holds her hand aloft as it drips black down her palm, “I have the blood.  I have the chip. I was born for this,” Clarke darts a glance at Lexa who stands closer now, “same as you.”

 

Kay studies her in silence for a second before taking his knife back from her, holding eye contact as he slices his palm as well. He holds out his hand and they clasp it between them, blood running black down their forearms. There is another beat of silence before he smiles.

 

“Welcome, Clarke kom Skaikru.”

 

Clarke smiles in return, hesitantly, the feeling so unfamiliar on her frozen lips. Kay steps back, sheathing his knife before speaking. “You must work harder to prove your allegiance to the people of Polis.  Sparing the lives of the Skaikru traitors has served to imbalance much of your support.”

 

Clarke swallows hard, “What do you suggest I do? Can you help me?”

 

Beca steps forward, placing a hand on Clarke’s shoulder. “That’s why we’re here.”

 

*

 

The sun is setting when the commanders leave. 

 

Clarke watches them go much the same as they came, one by one and then, inexplicably, all at once.

 

She shivers as the shadows creep back in, the light shrinking with the sun, the grass a grey echo of its brilliant green. 

 

Clarke feels a light touch on her back and she spins, breath caught high in her throat, wondering what demons her mind has brought into this world. But then—

 

It’s Lexa. She’s there, right there, and she’s ducking her head to catch at Clarke’s eyes, her pupils wide and dark, lips parted.

 

“Are you cold, Clarke?” Lexa asks, voice clear and soft, hand retreating back to her side. Before Clarke can answer she is already shrugging off her heavy jacket, hesitating for a beat before she reaches out and drapes it around Clarke’s shoulders. Her hands stay at Clarke’s neck for a moment, an eternity, to pull the collar up more comfortably to Clarke’s chin. “You were shivering,” she says, but her voice is shaking now too, and Clarke steps in closer as though her touch can stop it.

 

“But now you’ll be cold,” Clarke says, she grazes her hand down Lexa’s bare arm before pulling back quick.  She doesn’t know where the line is. She doesn’t know if there is one.

 

Lexa swallows hard and it brings Clarke’s attention to her throat.  She studies the hard line of Lexa’s collarbones, the steady set of her shoulders.  Clarke’s eyes are drawn to that point on Lexa’s neck, just below the strong angle of her jaw, where her pulse beats fast and fluttering.

 

Lexa is breathing, Lexa is _breathing_.  Clarke had felt her, just weeks ago, fading in her arms, felt the last stutter of her before she bled her soul out into Clarke’s frantic hands.  And now here she is: strong and beautiful, her pulse throbbing at the warm arch of her neck.

 

“You were dead,” Clarke says, hushing the last word, like saying it any louder will make it so. She chokes out a sob despite herself, and it stings at her eyes, tears at her throat. “You left, you were gone, I didn’t—”

 

Lexa reaches for her now, her own eyes wet, lips trembling. Clarke winces away and Lexa immediately withdraws, taking a step back, hands shooting behind her back and knotting carefully.

 

“No, no,” gasps Clarke, taking a step forward to close the gap, hands pressing hard against her chest to try to hold back the sobs, “Just let me, just let me—” she reaches out, slowly at first, then more hungrily, to trace the arch of Lexa’s cheeks beneath her fingers. Lexa shudders out a breath but stays almost perfectly still, imperceptibly leaning into Clarke’s touch.

 

Clarke moves in closer, edges forward until their toes are touching and she can feel the heat from Lexa’s skin. War paint smudges beneath her fingers and Clarke would apologize but Lexa’s eyes are fluttering shut now, breath stuttering harsh from parted lips.  Clarke runs her finger down the straight, perfect bridge of Lexa’s nose, strokes a thumb over her lips, nods into her until their foreheads are touching and she can’t keep her eyes open for fear that the sight of Lexa crumbling underneath her fingertips will break her in two.

 

“I found you,” Clarke breathes, her mouth almost touching Lexa’s as they move, the centimeters between them shrinking as Lexa presses slowly forward. 

 

“You found me,” Lexa says in answer, her breath warm on Clarke’s lips.  There is a beat of stillness and Clarke opens her eyes, pulling back as she sees her world anew.

 

The sun is just a sliver now, sky streaked with pink and gold, fading deeply into the heavy almost-black of the teetering night. A moon hangs low, washing the trees and grass with a silver that keeps them alive, even in the dark.

 

“What do we do now?” Clarke asks, her hand skimming over Lexa’s skin, fingers curling around Lexa’s bicep, absently stroking the lines of her tattoo.

 

Lexa looks at her, serious and adoring, pulling her bottom lip into her mouth before she turns her eyes to the sky, studying it appraisingly.

 

“I think,” she says, low and regretful, “it’s time for you to wake up.”

 

Clarke feels panic clutch her chest, “No,” she says, voice shaking now, soft grip turning hard on Lexa’s arm, “I only just got you back.”

 

“Your people need you, Clarke,” Lexa says, wincing at her own words, “Our people need you.”

 

Clarke pulls back, suddenly furious, heart tight in her chest, limbs heavy. “What, so I just lose you again?”

 

“I’ll be here every time you sleep, Clarke,” Lexa says, reaching out slowly, giving Clarke a chance to pull away before she touches Clarke’s jaw carefully, “you just have to look for me.”

 

*

When Clarke wakes, the first thing she feels is an agonizing throb from her shoulder. She whimpers quietly, cracking open her eyes and blinking until the world comes into focus.

 

Her mind is still trying to crystalize the fractured images that float before her when a soft hand cups her cheek.

 

“C’mon Griffin,” a voice says, “I know you aren’t going to let something as trivial as an assassination attempt keep you down.”

 

Clarke’s vision clears and she blinks harder, trying to make sense of the woman that is sitting close to her bedside.

 

“Octavia?” she whispers, voice cracking and hoarse.

 

Octavia hums in affirmation, hand soothing across Clarke’s brow, “You’re pretty out of it right now, but I promise I’m not a hallucination.”

 

Clark frowns, shifting slowly and whimpering as pain again cuts through her shoulder. “Did you shoot me?”

 

Octavia barks out a rough laugh.  “Not today, Clarke.” She gestures at the room, Clarke’s room she realizes now, lit by candles though daylight throbs behind tightly drawn curtains.  “You’ve been out for about twelve hours. Apparently, the man who shot you was immediately killed by your guards.” Octavia sits up, pulling her hand back into her lap, “They’ve determined he was working alone. Just another person at odds with your agenda, this is going to happen now that you’re Heda.” She says the last word harshly, and Clarke can’t quite read the tone. She flinches anyway.

 

Octavia sighs heavily and shakes her head, kicking up her legs onto the bed. “You should have let Pike’s people die, Clarke.”

 

Clarke tries to push up on her elbows and immediately falls back down in pain. Octavia reaches over to press a hand flat down on Clarke’s chest, keeping her lying down, “God Griffin, do you ever learn?”

 

Clarke glares at her from her pillows, loopy on whatever medication she has been given but trying to arrange her face into something intimidating all the same. “Bellamy was one of them, Octavia.”

 

Octavia clenches her jaw, mouth a bitter grimace as she fixes her eyes on Clarke. “He’s dead to me anyway.”

 

Clarke furrows her brow, struggling to sit up but failing, still pinned by Octavia’s firm hand. “What happened? What aren’t you telling me?”

 

Octavia shakes her head abruptly, the grimace still in place, “Later, Clarke. Abby left me with strict instructions.  You have to rest now.”

 

“My mom is here?” Clarke asks, childishly eager, the medication clouding her ability to censor her excitement.

 

Octavia moves her hand from Clarke’s chest, tugging her hair lightly. “She had to go back to Arkadia.  There is a lot of work to be done.”

 

“Me too,” Clarke groans, pressing back into the pillows, burrowing her cheek into the warmth of the bed. “I have to reaffirm myself, I have to establish myself, I have to make them—”

 

Octavia presses her hand over Clarke’s mouth, stifling her words. “How about you think about that after you heal, _Heda._ ” She says it like a mockery, and Clarke thinks that some parts of Octavia are never going to forgive her. Clarke can’t blame her.  Guilt is Clarke’s most trusted companion, more constant than breathing. It clings to her as death does, etched in the lines of her shadow, settling heavy in her footsteps.

 

“I talked to the commanders,” Clarke says softly, heaving a breath that twinges her shoulder.  She barely feels it, mind wandering to the advice the commanders had given her, speeches on strategy and loyalty, more cultural education than she had received in a month as Heda.

 

Octavia tilts her head curiously, leaning in closer against the bedside. “You mean you dreamed you did?”

 

“No,” says Clarke, turning her gaze to the outlines of sunlight she can see around the border of the curtains, “I really talked to them.”

 

“Clarke—”

 

“It’s an AI,” Clarke says, reverting her eyes back to Octavia, chin tilted up, eyes hard, “The commander’s soul, the flame, it’s an AI.”

 

Octavia’s brow furrows, lips falling open, her eyes go wide and Clarke realizes she has missed seeing wonder shape Octavia’s face. “No, you can’t be serious.”

 

Clarke nod, continuing, “It’s miles ahead of anything we had on the Arc. I can feel it,” she winces, arching her neck, “even now, I can feel it.” She pauses, trying to kepe her voice steady.  “It was in Lexa, it was in all the commander’s before her, and now it’s in me. It somehow stored their consciousness and experiences and _beings_ in this chip.” She shakes her head, digging her fingers hard into her leg, “being there isn’t like a dream, it’s real, it’s tangible. You can touch someone and they are really there, just under your fingertips, just like they used to be.” She’s rambling now, the medicine finally kicking fully in. The pain slowly subsides, and all that is left is the raw ache in Clarke’s chest. “I touched her, Octavia. I touched her and she was back, she was there Octavia, she didn’t leave, she didn’t leave me.”

 

 Octavia stands quickly, pressing her hand flat to Clarke’s forehead. “Calm down, Clarke.  It’s okay, you’re alright. You need to calm down.”

 

Clarke whimpers now, voice cracking, sobs closing around her throat, her mind fading as the delirium of the medication sets in.  “She was right there—”

 

“I know, I know,” Octavia whispers, pausing as if to consider before she swings a leg up on the bed, settling herself next to Clarke.  She props herself on her elbow before she cups Clarke’s cheek, tilting her head until their eyes catch, the steady, dark of Octavia’s gaze grounding her.

 

Clarke tilts her head forward until their foreheads knock together, the warmth of Octavia’s breath on her mouth a tether.  It feels so familiar, it feels like—

 

“Lexa,” Clarke sighs out, tender and holy, eyes fluttering shut. 

 

She feels a hand slide from her cheek to her jaw, a thumb massaging lightly over her neck.  “Sleep now, Clarke,” Octavia says, “Everything will be clearer when you wake.”

 

Clarke nods into the warmth of the body next to her until, deeply and painlessly, she sleeps.

 

*

 

Clarke wanders through a myriad of dreams.  Her feet taking her from the burnished metal of the dropship to the empty halls of the ark. She passes through the forests of her three month exile, through Pauna’s den and the ringing, deathly silence of Mount Weather.

 

Though she calls for her until her throat goes hoarse, Lexa is nowhere to be found.

 

*

A month passes. Clarke demands retribution from the Sky People.  She travels to the villages that suffered the most from the senseless slaughter, delivering goods and food at Arkadia’s expense. She had made the arrangements with Kane, made it clear he would provide these commodities or Skaikru would face the full wrath of the council, a wrath that she has kept shakily at bay.

 

Clarke establishes new trade routes, integrates tech into some villages, provides new crops to the agricultural workers of Polis using seeds that were preserved on the Ark, ones didn’t survive the world’s decimation.

 

Mere days after her assassination attempt, Clarke walks through the streets of Polis, greeting people by name, her sling-bound arm the only sign of the arrow wound. She walks with her head held high, Lexa’s shoulder guard in place, red cape trailing in her wake. 

 

Behind her, Octavia prowls. Face smudged with black, sword slung over her back, glare fixed firmly in place.

 

The Polis children make up games about them, the commander and her disobedient warrior. They tell stories of their beauty and strength, names whispered with a kind of reverence as they pass by.

 

Slowly, things begin to change.

 

Clarke can’t place the shift at first, can’t seem to name what it is until Octavia tells her one night over dinner.

 

“It’s trust, Clarke,” she leans across the table to snag Clarke’s bread though a basket of it rests on the table beside them, “They are beginning to trust you.”

 

 Clarke smiles softly down at her plate before standing to wrestle her bread back from Octavia’s grasp.

 

*

 

Clarke leaves her room early one morning to find Leksa sitting cross legged outside her door.

 

The girl stands when she sees Clarke, looking up at her with wide eyes and a trembling pout. There is a single beat of silence before Clarke stoops and holds out her arms.

 

“Miya strisis,” she whispers quietly, catching the girl as she runs into her arms, folding her arms around her and cradling her head to her chest, “I missed you.”

 

She feels Leksa nod against her and she stands, sweeping the girl off the floor and squeezing her until she laughs into Clarke’s neck, any thought of tears forgotten.

 

*

 

Clarke sits by the open window, fur wrapped tightly around her shoulders, watching as the sun slinks below the horizon. Octavia is a room away, Leksa curled on Clarke’s bed behind her, sighing sleepily as she burrows deeper in the nest she has made from the covers.

 

Clarke basks in the chill of descending dusk, entranced with the way the last of the sun’s rays color the sprawl of Polis before her.

 

Clarke Griffin feels a warmth settle light in her chest, she breathes softly out, tilting her head back against the soft give of the couch. She lets her eyes drift shut, clearing her mind of everything but the silence that falls as quickly as night. When Clarke Griffin sleeps, she dreams.

 

*

 

She is in front of a tent, completely alone. Clarke isn’t sure how she got here, but there is something off in the emptiness of the world that surrounds her.  The silence feels forced, her surroundings synthetic.  Only the thin canvas drapings of the tent before her seems genuine, the door a torn swatch of heavy, red cloth. Something about it rings familiar, and the memory of it tugs insistently at the back of her mind. Clarke breathes out heavily and pushes the fabric aside, stepping in before her dream takes her somewhere else.

 

Light filters through the ceiling and walls, the grass under her feet mottled with shadows. A table covered with an array maps and scrolls is on her left, a pitcher of water abandoned among the mess. On her right is a small scale model of the surrounding land.

 

And straight ahead is the throne, despairingly familiar now, the carved wood of the intricate back arching overhead, the base a work of art. However Clarke cares little for the craftsmanship of the furniture when compared with the girl that sprawls across it.

 

It’s Lexa, hair spilling over her shoulders, braids binding the sides tight against her scalp.  Black war paint drips fiercely down her cheeks and around her eyes, accenting the cutting angle of her cheekbones, eyes standing out dramatically against the shadows of her face. However, unlike the first time Clarke saw her here, she isn’t glaring, and the knife that she toys with in long, careful fingers doesn’t fill Clarke with dread. Rather, the casualness with which she handles the blade, stroking down the flat of the metal slowly, is enough to make Clarke ache.

 

“This is where we met,” Clarke hushes into the room, stepping forward hesitantly, “This is where I first saw you.”

 

Lexa looks up, smiling softly now, her mouth a contradiction to the harsh silver of her dagger, to the paint that hardens the gentle arch of her brow.

 

“Why are we here?” Clarke asks, inching ever closer, she bites her lip into her mouth, watching as Lexa tilts her head thoughtfully to the side.

 

“I don’t know the answer to that question, Clarke,” Lexa says, her voice low and familiar, “You are the one who brought us here.  Why don’t you tell me?” She digs the blade of the knife into the arm of the throne, twirling it slowly as she watches Clarke’s approach.

 

“I’ve been looking for you almost every night,” Clarke says, “I don’t understand why I could only find you now.” Her voice hardens, though she tries to sound unconcerned she knows she is failing spectacularly. “You said you would be here.”

 

Lexa holds out her hands, palm up, the knife left quivering in the wood, “And I have looked for you.” She leans forward, un-crossing her legs, “I’ve missed you.”

 

Clarke feels herself immediately soften, stepping up onto the ledge of the dais, hovering carefully in front of Lexa. “I guess some part of me wasn’t ready to see you,” she breathes out slowly, reaching out a hand and settling it on Lexa’s knee, “not until I had begun to fix things between our people.”

 

She feels Lexa shiver beneath her touch, watches the steady set of her mouth quiver.  “And are you now?” Lexa asks, carefully, impossibly shy beneath the stern mask that stains her in shadow.

 

“Am I what?” Clarke whispers, setting her other hand on Lexa’s knee until she has positioned herself between them, tilting her head to look down at Lexa.

 

She watches Lexa watch her, and it’s like Lexa sees entire worlds in Clarke’s eyes. Lexa regards her with such devotion and care, an open awe in the tilt of her brow and the curve of her lips.

 

“Are you ready?” Lexa asks, so softly Clarke almost doesn’t hear her.

 

Clarke moves a hand to Lexa’s cheek, raising her chin toward her, bending down until the soft plush of Lexa’s lips are meeting her own. And then she’s kissing her, mouth moving carefully against Lexa’s, feeling her shaking beneath her.  Lexa kisses her gentle and slow, like any sudden movement would have Clarke pulling away, as though any insistence would scare her off.

 

Clarke parts her lips, fitting her mouth more urgently against Lexa’s, breaking the kiss to smile when Lexa hums, deep from her chest, hands reaching out to wind in Clarke’s shirt. Clarke pulls back, just barely, smiling wider when Lexa arches to chase her, eyes still closed and breathing fast.

 

“Does that seem like a yes to you?” Clarke murmurs, watching Lexa’s eyelashes flutter soft against her cheek before they blink open, eyes fixing on her, half-lidded and heavy.

 

“Yes?” Lexa says hesitantly, looking almost nervous, biting her bottom lip into her mouth.  Clarke rolls her eyes, raising an eyebrow before swinging a leg over Lexa’s lap, settling down gently, huffing out a laugh as Lexa immediately scoots further back in the throne so she can tug Clarke more firmly against her. They are nose to nose now and Lexa cups Clarke’s waist in her hands, nudging in until they are almost kissing and stopping, waiting for Clarke to close the gap.

 

Clarke does, kissing her harder now, swallowing Lexa’s gasps, licking gently at Lexa’s mouth until she parts her lips, moaning softly when her tongue touches the wet heat of Lexa’s own. Lexa’s hands tighten on her waist, pulling Clarke more firmly against her until she can feel every rise and fall of Lexa’s breath in her lungs.

 

Kissing Lexa ignites her.  It sets her burning with a steady flame that licks from the dangerous thunder of Clarke’s heart to the swoop of her stomach, all the way to the low, deep ache between her legs. Clarke winds her hands in Lexa’s hair, mussing carefully arranged braids, tugging her until their mouths press almost painfully close.  Her teeth dig hard into Lexa’s bottom lip and she soothes it with her tongue.  Lexa whines, a small satisfied noise at the back of her throat, nodding into Clarke’s kisses, messy and longing, lapping eagerly into Clarke’s mouth.  Clarke doesn’t notice that she has started to grind down against her until Lexa rolls her hips to meet her.

 

Clarke jolts back, gasping, hands closing firmly around Lexa’s shoulders. “Wait, sorry, wait,” she stutters out, half cursing herself for stopping. Lexa pulls back immediately, eyes dazed and lips parted, hands flying off Clarke’s hips to hover nervously in the air.

 

“I’m sorry, Clarke,” she says, brow furrowing, “I didn’t mean to presume—”

 

Clarke immediately cuts her off, hands cupping Lexa’s cheeks, sighing heavily as she leans in, pressing their foreheads together and closing her eyes. “No Lexa, that was perfect.” She pulls back, dropping a kiss to Lexa’s forehead, rubbing her nose over her brow as she peppers kisses over her eyelids and along the curve of her cheek, “You’re perfect.” Clarke pulls back again, “I just needed to, I don’t know, to ground myself?”

 

Lexa’s hands move back to Clarke’s waist, resting softly over her hip bones, thumbs slipping under her shirt to rub light circles above the hem of Clarke’s jeans.  “I’ll keep you here, sky girl,” Lexa murmurs, fond and soft, “I’ll make sure I don’t lose you again to the stars.”

 

Clarke laughs, looking at Lexa in earnest now, basking in the small smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, in the careful way Lexa looks at her, sated and wondering and lovely.

 

Clarke thumbs across Lexa’s cheeks, laughing again. “Your paint is all smeared,” she holds up her fingers, the whorls and pads stained black by the heavy makeup, “I wonder why.”

 

Lexa tilts her chin to look at her, smirking now, the self-satisfied expression jolting low in Clarke’s stomach before she can help it. “Well I think I know where most of it ended up,” Lexa says lowly, her smile growing.

 

Clarke’s hands fly to her face and she rubs hard, groaning in embarrassment. “Oh god, is it bad?”

 

Lexa raises an eyebrow, “Not bad,” she pauses, “it’s cute.”

 

Clarke groans louder, wiping her sleeve across her cheeks roughly, “Did I get it all?”

 

Lexa reaches up slowly, wiping gently down the bridge of Clarke’s nose, “I got it.” She smirks again, “It looked good on you.”

 

Clarke swats at her, “This is your fault, wearing all that.”

 

Lexa’s mouth falls open in faux indignation, a kind of playfulness Clarke thinks she has never been privy to before.  “I was not the one who chose to have me here on this throne wearing it,” Lexa tilts her head, “I believe that was you.” She leans in closer, pressing a kiss against Clarke’s collarbone, ducking her head to nose at Clarke’s chest, moving her lips carefully over the swell of Clarke’s cleavage.  “Perhaps,” Lexa murmurs, “You like the way I look in it.”

 

Clarke tries to look affronted before she realizes it won’t matter, Lexa can’t see her face anyway.  She is too busy humming softly as she kisses gently just above the collar of Clarke’s shirt.  Clarke arches into her unintentionally and Lexa makes a small noise of satisfaction, thumbs dipping below her jean’s hem, still rubbing in slow, soft circles.

 

“Maybe I do,” Clarke murmurs.

 

Lexa raises her head to look up at her, eyes hooded, lips pursed in a pout. Her hands are stroking up Clarke’s sides now, tracing her ribs, scratching long lines down Clarke’s skin that set her humming.

 

“I want—” Lexa starts, trailing off, fingers just touching the fabric of Clarke’s bra before retreating back to the soft of her stomach, splaying flat there, certain and warm.

 

“You want?” Clarke says, husky and low, feeling Lexa squirm beneath her. But then Lexa is shaking her head sharply, hands removed from under Clarke’s shirt, pressing chastely and respectfully over the leg of Clarke’s jeans instead.

 

“I should get cleaned up,” she says quietly, beginning to remove herself from under Clarke. 

 

Clarke holds fast, toying with the buckles and straps that criss-cross Lexa’s chest. “Is that what you want?” Clarke asks, tugging hard against the buckle of Lexa’s shoulder guard until Lexa is pressed flat against her, head level with the hollow of Clarke’s throat.

 

She feels lips press, greedy and warm, against the skin there, sucking lightly before withdrawing. Clarke leans forward for more contact, but then Lexa has her hands on Clarke’s waist, gently but firmly moving her to the side so she can stand. 

 

Clarke stands as well, stretching, regarding Lexa’s pink cheeks and rapid breathing. “Are you alright?” she asks slowly, taking a step back.

 

Lexa nods rapidly, making a vague gesture at herself, “I’m just—I’m…”

 

Clarke smiles, rocking forward, brushing a light touch over Lexa’s flushed cheek.  “Overwhelmed?”

 

Lexa glares at her, crossing her arms. “No,” she says flatly, the tips of her ears blushing a deeper red, hair mussed and wild, braids all but gone. “If we kept going I might have had trouble stopping,” she says quietly, eyes fixed on the floor, “You make me—” she makes that same vague gesture and Clarke reaches for her hand, tugging her across the tent. 

 

“I know, Lexa. I know.”

 

*

 

Clarke leads Lexa to the war table, regarding it critically before pushing aside piles of maps and patting the wood insistently.

 

“Hop up.”

 

Lexa’s eyes flick up to meet Clarke’s, expression blank and lips pressed into an unamused line. “Excuse me?”

 

Clarke smiles, gesturing to the table and nudging Lexa’s arm playfully. “Sit up there,” she says, smile growing as Lexa continues to look at her flatly, “I’m going to clean you up.”

 

There is a small break across Lexa’s face, a softening around her eyes, a slight tilt of her head as Lexa regards her.  “As you wish, Clarke,” she says, lifting herself to perch on the table’s edge, watching Clarke quietly as she moves around the edge of the table to reach the pitcher of water.

 

Clarke finds cloth folded neatly by the corner of the table.  She doesn’t question it, it is her own reality after all. She wets the cloth as she moves back to Lexa’s side, fussing with her position until Lexa part her knees, nudging Clarke to stand between them.

 

Clarke rocks onto her tiptoes, pressing a feather-light kiss to Lexa’s nose. “This feels familiar,” she says softly, coveting the quirk of Lexa’s lip in response. “Close your eyes,” she whispers and Lexa immediately obliges, lashes fluttering against her cheek.  She tilts her head toward Clarke, vulnerable and trusting, breath held fast in her throat as she waits for Clarke’s touch.

 

Clarke doesn’t give in immediately, watching her instead. Black smudges dark around Lexa’s closed eyes, creeping down her cheeks and into her hairline.  She looks messy and breathless from the after effects of Clarke’s touch, stripped bare to the quick. She looks as she did so many months ago, sunlight stricken in her bed—Clarke’s bed now—haloed in gold as she ducked to press saccharine-sweet kisses against Clarke’s eager lips. Though they were restrained to an hour then, there was a promise of years in the craving of that kiss. 

 

Robbed of years with a single bullet. Clarke knows that story has been told before her, and she knows it will be told after, but it was never supposed to be theirs.  A girl dead and her lover left behind. A betrayal of a narrative they never had a chance to write.

 

Clarke doesn’t know what they have now, doesn’t know if years can be measured in this virtual world of her own design. There is no time restraint anymore, only the knowledge that reality will again take hold, and when it does, she will have to leave without her.

 

Clarke watches Lexa wait for her touch.  Eyes closed. Lips parted. Vulnerable. Trusting. Clarke watches and wishes for more time.

 

“Clarke?” Lexa murmurs, eyes still closed, hands curled tightly around the table’s edge.

 

Clarke hums in response, leaning in to run the rag down the slope of Lexa’s cheek. Clarke watches Lexa’s face closely, observing every flutter of her eyelashes, every subtle clench in her jaw. She strokes lightly across the high, round of her cheekbones, revealing the tanned skin beneath.  A light pink blush stains Lexa’s cheek and Clarke glances down to see Lexa’s knuckles are white from her fast grip.  She thumbs across them until Lexa eases up, uncurling her fingers slowly.

 

“Do you want me to stop?” she asks, Lexa shaking her head fast in response. Clarke huffs out a laugh. “Then relax, Lexa.” Clarke leans in closer, tilting Lexa’s chin down and wiping, feather light, around her eyes. “Keep them closed,” Clarke whispers, brushing lightly over the fragile, soft of Lexa’s eyelid.

 

Clarke continues take advantage of Lexa’s closed eyes, studying the full cupid’s bow of her top lip, the unspeakably soft curve of her bottom lip that is pursed into a pout now, expectant and waiting for Clarke’s touch. Clarke cleans the last of the smudged black residue from the high arch of Lexa’s forehead, tapping playful at her cheek when she finishes.

 

Clarke isn’t prepared when Lexa opens her eyes, her pupils dark, blown wide in the dimming light of the tent.  They are rimmed in a steady, careful almost-green that catches adoringly on Clarke’s close gaze.

 

“No one has ever done that for me before,” she murmurs, low and reverent, a hand reaching out to catch lightly at Clarke’s wrist. 

 

Clarke feels herself leaning unconsciously forward, shivering as Lexa moves her hand from Clarke’s wrist to entwine their fingers loosely.

 

“I want to take care of you,” Clarke says, and Lexa startles back, lips parting as she breathes out a quiet sigh.

 

“And I want to let you,” Lexa murmurs, ducking in closer, bringing their clasped hands close against her chest until Clarke can feel the rapid beat of her through the course layers of her shirt.

 

The gentle thrum of her is impossibly small and fragile.  Clarke thinks Lexa’s heart could be a tiny, muted songbird, cupped safely in their joined hands. Clarke wonders if Lexa has always looked at her so openly and defenseless, if she has just been blind to the wide-eyed vulnerability until now.

 

“So let me,” Clarke says, quiet and careful, pressing her palm flat just under Lex’s collarbones, feeling the songbird fluttering wildly.

 

“Okay,” Lexa murmurs.

 

And then Clarke is nodding and leaning forward, pulling back to smile, and pressing in to kiss her again.

 

*

 

Clarke wakes to find Octavia leaning over her. She clears her throat roughly, forcing herself to sit up from her slump against the couch, blinking away the last remnants of sleep.  Octavia smirks, falling back onto the floor.

 

“Good dream?”

 

Clarke coughs, embarrassed and low, feeling the pink heat of blush rising to her cheeks as she remembers the open, wet of Lexa’s mouth, pressed keenly against her own.

 

She rubs a careless hand over eyes, “It wasn’t a dream.”

 

Octavia perks up, pushing up onto her forearms to look at Clarke with interest. “So you saw them then? The commanders?”

 

“Just Lexa,” Clarke says, casting her gaze around the room, peering at the closed door. “Where’s little Leksa?”

 

Octavia reaches out a hand to smack her, drawing her focus back to her twisted grimace of a smile. “Don’t change the subject, Clarke.  How do you know it wasn’t just a dream?”

 

Clarke shoves away her hand, glaring at her.  “It’s different than a dream. Rounder. Fuller.” She stops to study Octavia’s dark, narrowed eyes, the glossy, wild toss of her hair that falls bed-messy in her eyes. “I can feel pain.”

 

Octavia cocks her head.  “Did someone hurt you?”

 

Clarke thinks about Lexa’s fingers digging hard into her hip, nails biting the soft skin in an eager grasp. “No. Nothing like that.”

 

Octavia grins, crawling toward Clarke until she can sprawl across her, elbows digging sharply into the soft of Clarke’s stomach. Clarke whines loudly, trying to shove her off, half laughing as she does.

 

Octavia has changed in the months since she came to Polis. Any kind of youthful sheen is gone, but it has been long before she found Clarke here. Long before Lincoln even, perhaps as far back as Clarke’s knife, buried in Atom’s throat. But she’s lighter, purposeful. Content to spend days pacing darkly behind Clarke, teasing Leksa or training with Indra.  She has found freedom, found a home bigger than a metal box under displaced floorboards.

 

Clarke realizes with a start that perhaps they both found a kind of home here. It surprises her more than it should and she stops trying to push Octavia off, stilling instead, brushing Octavia’s hair away from her face.

 

Octavia freezes as well, letting her weight rest fully against Clarke, palms splayed on either side of her head.

 

“You miss her don’t you,” Octavia says, barely a whisper, eyes boring into Clarke’s own.

 

Clarke swallows hard, throat bobbing. “I was just with her.”

 

Octavia shakes her head, hair tickling Clarke’s cheeks, “But you still miss her.”

 

Clarke pushes lightly at Octavia’s shoulder under she rolls off onto her back.  They both lay, side by side, staring at the arched ceiling.

 

“Yes, I miss her.”

 

Octavia barely moves, but Clarke can see her heave a breath out of the corner of her eye.

 

“You loved her, didn’t you?”

 

Clarke feels that familiar hollow ache as it pulses painfully in her empty chest. “I don’t know.” She feels a twinge at that and closes her eyes, breathing sharply out of her nose. “Yes.  I loved her.” _Love_ , she corrects in her mind, _I love her._

She feels Octavia’s hand brush her own, and then a sort of calm as their fingers lock together.

 

“How do you keep going?” Octavia says, her voice young and high, “How do you bear it?”

 

Clarke rolls onto her side, slinging an arm across Octavia’s torso, nestling soft against her shoulder.

 

“I haven’t had to say goodbye,” Clarke whispers, “Not really.”

 

She can feel Octavia crying and tightens her hold.  They don’t speak, just lay in silence until the sun streams unavoidably bright through the open window and Leksa shows up at the door, eager to begin their day.

**Author's Note:**

> If you want you can find me at nevervalentines.tumblr.com 
> 
> Trigedasleng Translations (probably incorrect but I did my best ok guys):  
> Natblidas- Nightbloods  
> Natrona-Traitor   
> Branwada skai gada- Foolish sky girl   
> Yu na spek daun gon Clarke -You will show respect to Clarke   
> Miya strisis -Come here little sister


End file.
